


The Law of Plums

by elistaire



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Baking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Food, Food Sex, Historically Inaccurate, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-19 23:50:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11324280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: Methos remembers he is supposed to bake something and since Mac can’t find the baking sheets, he improvises.





	The Law of Plums

**Author's Note:**

> This story was part of the Slash Advent Calendar of 2003 at http://www.kardasi.com/Advent/2003 (no longer an active link)
> 
> It was meant to be a holiday story and a little silly and fluffy. With thanks to  
> Chris P., who always tells me that I *can*.

Fingers tickled at the edge of his ribs and Methos rolled over into the warm arms of his lover, Duncan MacLeod. He snuggled in against the broad chest, still half asleep, although the insistent fingers had traveled lower and were now caressing his hips.

“You asleep?” MacLeod asked softly, still trailing fingers lightly over sensitive areas.

“Maybe,” Methos playfully answered as he started to become fully awake. He blinked in the darkness and grinned an unseen grin. MacLeod really did have a thing for middle of the night nookie. 

“Something I can do to convince you?” MacLeod whispered back, voice full of promise.

“Maybe,” Methos answered again, playing coy, and then made the mistake of looking at the clock. “Shit!” He sat straight up, instantly wide awake.

“What? What is it?” MacLeod asked, concerned.

“I forgot about my meeting in the morning.”

“Oh, is that all?” MacLeod laughed softly and went back to exploring with his fingers. “Skip it. Stay here with me.”

It certainly was tempting. He and MacLeod had gone up to the cabin the day the University had closed for semester break, two days ago, and they’d planned on being up here until the New Year. Methos had envisioned lazy days of reading in front of the fire, numerous bottles of beer and cups of spiked coffee, and nights of sharing warmth under the quilts with MacLeod. Getting up, placing his feet on the cold floor, dressing, and driving the hour into town was not on his preferred list. He shivered just at the thought of all that cold. He groaned, remembering again. Even worse, he’d been pressured to bring a homemade dessert. No, he was definitely not going to do it. He’d made the promise in a moment of weakness. It wasn’t in his nature to be dependable. Everyone knew that about him. He was the least dependable creature on the face of the planet.

“Excellent suggestion,” he murmured and slid back under the eiderdown. 

MacLeod breathed against his neck and for a few minutes Methos forgot all about the meeting again. 

“Cookies,” his brain suddenly suggested right in the middle of *everything*.

“What?” Methos gasped.

MacLeod moved up to kiss him roughly. “I said that I loved you,” he repeated when he’d done kissing Methos silly. He returned to his previous occupation.

“Oh…that’s okay then….” Methos fell back into his beautiful world.

“Cookies!” his brain demanded.

“Damn it!” Methos spit out the words like they were rancid. 

“Methos?” MacLeod asked, uncertain. “Is everything ok? You usually enjoy this.” A hint of amusement crept in at the last.

Methos bent down and kissed MacLeod, a softer twin to the earlier kiss. “Oh yes, I always enjoy this. But,” he amended as he checked the clock, “I’m on a countdown. I made a commitment and if I said I’d bring dessert, then I need to get baking.”

MacLeod clicked on a light. “Baking?” He pressed the back of his hand against Methos’ forehead. “You don’t seem to have a fever.” He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to finish this first?”

Methos did want to finish this. He leaned in to reclaim MacLeod’s mouth and ignored his brain for the next fifteen minutes. He took the fifteen minutes after that to recuperate.

When he finally left the bed, MacLeod was dozing again, and he noticed that the floor was exactly as cold as he feared it would be.

The kitchen, however, was as fully stocked as he knew it would be. It took almost no time to locate the necessary ingredients and mix up a double batch of chocolate chip cookies. Methos hummed to himself as he checked the pre-heated oven. He’d bake the cookies, drive in for the meeting, and drive back. He’d be back by noon and he and MacLeod could find a way to celebrate the end of the oh-so temporary separation.

“O-kay,” he said when the third place he looked failed to materialize any baking sheets. “This is not looking promising.” He pulled open more drawers and cabinets. Not a single cookie sheet, jelly roll pan, or pizza stone greeted him. He turned on his heel and went to the bedroom. “Mac?” He rubbed the nape of MacLeod’s neck and the man stirred.

“Hmm?” MacLeod leered up at him. “Back for round two?”

“I think you KO’d me already once tonight. What I need right now is for you to tell me where you keep your baking sheets.”

“Baking sheets?” MacLeod swung his feet over the side of the bed. He pulled on a bathrobe and padded out to the kitchen. Methos crossed his arms and watched MacLeod open every cabinet and drawer. “I don’t seem to have any.” MacLeod rummaged around and pulled out a frying pan. “Will this do?”

“Not really.” Methos picked up the bowl of cookie dough and handed it over to MacLeod. “Here. Enjoy.”

MacLeod shrugged and licked at the spatula. “This is good.”

“Yes, I know.” Methos circled the kitchen. He was not yet defeated. Just because MacLeod had nothing to actually bake anything in did not mean that he was beaten. He stared at the items in the pantry. MacLeod did enjoy eating in a very healthy manner. Methos counted twenty cans of various beans. Kidney beans, black beans, black-eyed peas, northern beans, chickpeas, lima beans. He stopped counting the beans when he noticed the cans and bags of dried fruit. Well, maybe.

He pulled out the pineapple, the dates, the currants, the raisins, almonds, and the walnuts. He pulled out the cherries and cranberries. Arms full, he turned to face MacLeod (who’d worked his way through a quarter of the cookie dough) and smiled triumphantly.

“Wazz chu gwanna mak?” MacLeod asked, mouth half full of dough.

“Fruitcake.” Methos lifted his chin, triumphant.

“Fruitcake? You’re joking.” MacLeod studied him. “You’re not joking. You know there are only about ten fruitcakes in the world and they just get passed around, right?”

Methos chose to ignore the comment. “Bring me the sherry. Bring me the brandy.”

MacLeod obliged and brought forth the spirits. “But how will you bake it?”

“Watch and learn, Highlander,” Methos directed and began his task. Macleod retired to the couch to doze, since it was early, even for him. Soon, Methos had cleaned out several tin-cans and filled them with raw fruitcake batter. He carefully placed them in the pre-heated oven and stood back with a satisfied stance. “Recycling at its best.”

“Clever,” MacLeod admired as he moved from the couch to the kitchen area. “Too bad all that work will go to waste. Nobody _ever_ eats fruitcake. It just isn’t done.” He dipped a finger into the leftover batter and licked it slowly, staring straight at Methos. “Mmm,” he said approvingly.

“Fruitcake is a time honored tradition, MacLeod. Everyone needs something to complain about.” Methos smiled, pleased. “This way I fulfill my obligation and they learn to never convince me to bring anything in again.”

“Good plan. Except for one thing.” MacLeod dipped his finger in the leftover batter again and pulled out a nugget of almond. He placed it between Methos’ lips, gently pressing on it until Methos took it, chewed and swallowed. 

“Except for what one thing, MacLeod?” Methos asked suspiciously. 

Duncan swiped up another bit of batter and this time he daubed it on Methos’ ear. He quickly followed up by slowly licking it off. Methos hummed with pleasure at the sensation. “Except that this is excellent fruitcake. You’ll be making fruitcake every year now.”

“Well, I have been making it ever since I lived in Rome,” Methos said smugly, going for his own finger’s worth of batter to paint on MacLeod’s cheek and lips. “We used more seeds back then, though.” He smirked. “And it’s only batter. Wait till you taste it after it’s actually been baked.” He leaned in to lick the batter off of MacLeod, the well-savored taste of his lover mixed with clove and nutmeg. “Mmm,” he hummed. “You and fruitcake taste good together.”

MacLeod glanced at the oven timer. “We have forty minutes.”

“Sounds about right.”

MacLeod took a few steps backwards in the direction of the bedroom, his gaze sultry and come-hither. Methos began to follow.

“Methos?” MacLeod asked, voice deep and husky.

“Yes?” 

“Bring the batter.”


End file.
